


As It Was

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Angst, Audio 08.00: Enemy Lines, Canonical Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, just a lot of denial tbh, stupid boys :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: For every being in the multiverse, so Brax thinks, is a death befitting them.This cannot be Narvin's.





	As It Was

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive the Hozier title again. It's not my fault he only writes songs about Time Lords.

For every being in the multiverse, so Brax thinks, is a death befitting them. 

Just as one dresses themself, and styles their belongings, and carries their name to provoke a reaction, over time, of "yes, nothing else would be right," or "no, that must be a mistake," so too can certain circumstances of one's life evoke similar gut reactions. Leela, for example; nothing could suit her more than a death in the heat of battle, taking with her as many enemies as she can for some just and noble cause. Though Brax has absolutely no desire to see her killed, he can imagine no better way than that, and with that he knows she would be happy. Romana would gladly have given her life on the _Moros_ , any and all of them, if necessary, to avert a war with the Monans. It pains him, and always has, but any death in service of Gallifrey would only be right for her. And for his part, he would really rather not die in the foreseeable future—he's got quite a bit left to do, see, and it would be a tragedy for his desires to go unfulfilled—but if he must, he supposes he would be content with something rather more peaceful. Something of his choosing. Perhaps set to Tchaikovsky or Dvorak. 

Nothing about this is right for Narvin. 

It's on this thought that Brax finds himself returning to the room where they've kept his body, after listening to his final message. He's not entirely sure why. He's already seen the marks on his neck, and heard his description of the killer; his theory is more or less cemented by now. It's almost to his disappointment that the guards let him inside without question. But it clicks, once he's alone. 

It isn't like the first time, walking in. That had been like running headfirst into a brick wall; he hadn't even really believed the news, until he saw Romana and Leela huddled together at Narvin's side, saw the looks on their faces. In the same way a child often won't start crying after a fall or a bump until the adults show their horror, it's much harder, he's learned, for one to cling onto any semblance of denial when one sees others grieving. But this is gentler. As if the outside world, all the chaos of diplomacy and black holes and assassins, is simply slowing to a stop. 

He isn't one to reject a moment of calm when it presents itself, but he despises this. 

Without much in the way of conscious thought, he pulls a stool over to the side of the bed and sits. Narvin's body lies in his customary robes, a blanket tugged up to his waist by Leela, his head resting on a pillow that's no doubt softer than any he'd owned in life. The whole arrangement is less than proper; it echoes a sense of fondness, of respect, that would no doubt baffle anyone looking in from the outside. Brax dares to smooth out a small crease in the shoulder of his robes, letting the edge of the dark fabric rest between his fingers, and a short, harsh laugh escapes his throat. There's an inherent flaw in saying a corpse might as well be only sleeping when the man in question would never, not in a million years, sleep in his presence. 

It's wrong. It's _so wrong_ , Brax can hardly stand it. It hits him like he's stepped into the most obscene tangle of timelines, as much an abhorrence as the worst paradox. It turns his stomach, tightens around his throat and threatens to choke him. A universe in which he can touch Narvin and not be slapped away doesn't deserve to exist, and the fact that he feels that way must mean he's gone completely mad. 

His fist clenches in Narvin's robes, steadying him. Anger, of course, is an idiotic manifestation of grief. This is his timeline, his doing, and there's nothing to be gained raging against a phantom, against spacetime itself. He doubts he even has a right to feel angry. But he's not a selfless being; he's under no obligation to act justly, or nobly, and he doesn't care what he has or hasn't earned. He's alone, this is his time, his precious few moments in which he doesn't have to put up a front, and there's no one to stop him being angry if he wishes. 

He looks at Narvin resting in front of him, sharp eyes searching his face for any hint of contentment, or peace, or acceptance, anything but total, empty neutrality, and he finds nothing. The urge to lash out at something grips him in a vice. Oh, he can play at caretaker all he likes, arbitrator of unfavourable timelines, last bastion for the safety of those unlucky dependants of his, but he so rarely finds a person over whom he can feel genuinely protective. He's just heard Narvin's last words out of a terminal; he's heard the duplicitous wretch of a man calmly recount a description of his own murderer despite having been driven deep into the Matrix, no backup, no defence, no hope, and with his final message ask not that he be saved but that his killer be stopped, so that no one else would join him. Brax has heard his fear, lurking behind his ridiculous sense of duty, and knows that he died needlessly, alone and terrified, and knows that he deserved so much more, and it isn't _fair_. 

It's not fair, and though Brax is certain his every cell will rend with the injustice of it all, right now it's too late. He owes Narvin so much better than he got, and he thinks he owes himself a bit of bloody honesty for once in his lives; ever so gently he gathers Narvin into his arms, cradling his head against his chest, and lets his forehead rest against Narvin’s, grasping at his robes with trembling hands. Some cruel, irrational force compels him to reach out, his useless hearts skipping as he tentatively searches for any hint of consciousness, his useless mind insisting that he _must_ find it, that Narvin _must_ wake up and shove him away with some biting remark and a derisive look. 

It doesn’t come, not any of it, and a horrid, violent pain rips its way from his throat, between his hearts and down through his stomach, making his breath hitch and his eyes sting. His strength fails him then, and he buries his face against Narvin’s shoulder, curling in on himself in an attempt to ease the ache in his chest. He gasps in a shaky breath and is struck by the scent of clean linen and energy discharge, so different from the sterile chemical smell of the room, and with that he gives up on breathing entirely, his shoulders shaking noiselessly as he lets his respiratory bypass take over. 

The door slides open behind him and booted footsteps enter the room, then stop abruptly. Brax freezes, not daring to turn his head. 

“Oh– oh, er…” 

It’s some lowly guard or technician, Brax assumes, no one important; the nervous stuttering always gives them away. He sits up, bracing himself against the bed. 

“Hasn’t anyone taught you how to knock?” he mutters, his voice hoarser than he’d like. 

“Ah… apologies, Lord Braxiatel.” The intruder takes a step back. “I– I didn’t know–”

“ _Get out,_ ” Brax hisses, his cheeks heating in mingled embarrassment and anger. “Or I’ll have your job.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closes once more, and he listens to the hurried footsteps retreating down the hall outside. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he curses himself in a dozen different languages, hoping desperately that he never encounters the Time Lord again. Then he draws himself up, roughly wiping stray tears from his cheeks, and draws a deep, halting breath. 

“Quite enough of that,” he mutters, harshly forcing his attention away from Narvin and towards the real issue at hand. His allotted grieving time is well and truly over with. He has a job to do. Besides, if he’s right, then it doesn’t matter a bit that Narvin is dead, because in a purely scientific sense all of this _is_ actually wrong; he has a phantom murderer and a failing transduction barrier to prove it. Arbitrator of unfavourable timelines indeed—it’s hardly his fault he always ends up embroiled in such temporal antics. 

It’s like resurfacing after being dragged under by a particularly vicious current. Suddenly the ache in his chest is gone, the weight lifted from his shoulders, and when he takes his next breath he smiles, reveling in the odor of cleaning agents. He reaches down and fixes Narvin’s robes, his blanket, pleased to find that the return of his sense of perspective on the whole situation has allowed him to maintain a bit more control over his emotional state; he doesn’t feel a thing. 

No, none of this is right, but what’s the point of railing against it? He’s had his moment of cathartic indulgence. Now he’ll fix it. It’s a very special privilege of the Time Lords: knowing that no pain is permanent, if only one is willing to try hard enough. 

His mind whispers of the Watchmaker, and he silences it. 

He turns and sweeps out of the room, only pausing for the door. He rounds the corner and nearly collides with Romana. 

“Oh–” She jumps, startled until she realizes it’s him. “Oh, Brax, I thought…” A furrow appears in her brow, as if she’s looking at him afresh. “What are you doing back here?” she asks.

Brax supposes she’s picked up on some sign of his past melancholy—a redness to his eyes, perhaps, or a general sense of dishevelment. Ah, well. 

“I wanted another look at those burns,” he says, all academic curiosity. He continues walking, inviting her along as he passes. “Oddly enough, despite the tissue being cold when he was found there’s no sign of frostbite or similar damage. At first—well, second glance, I would say they were caused by a rather unusual energy discharge.” He pauses, and looks back to find that Romana hasn’t moved. 

“Really, Brax,” she says, exhaustion tinging her voice. “I’m sure you feel strongly about this theory of yours, but we haven’t the time to go chasing myths.”

Brax is tempted to ask what exactly she’s doing here, for he can't imagine it’s an investigative visit, but he’s pretty sure he already knows. He wouldn’t be so callous as to make her say it. He doesn't want to hear it either, come to think of it, so he tilts his head and puts on a small, humouring smile. 

“Of course not,” he says. He spins on his heel. “I’ll be in the Matrix databanks, my lady, should you need me.”

“Brax,” she calls, almost despairing. But he continues without so much as a glance. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)


End file.
